She is Zephyr…

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she is
wreathed in fragrance
gathered from
boudoir of flowers,

invisible and elusive
garlands of strung scents
compose realms in
rainbow-crocheted meads,

when virgin sighs
of awakening daffodils
with gold-dust wombs
herald colorful spring.

pink-white whispers
of cherry tree,
pepper silence of mornings
~citrus-lorn and clutching
to lingering sliver
of lunar promises
fading on face of azalea skies.

she finds her whimsy
in moods of sakura blossoms,
her laughter reminiscent
of sunflowers and plumeria,
her sensuous dreams
abound in breath of roses.

painting evensongs
with nectar of violets
wisterias and stoic amaranths,
she adorns nights
in sequins of night jasmine,
and pollens of dahlias.

she is the dream
of lotuses daydreaming over
lake’s indifferent embrace,
exuberance of marigolds
in balmy summer’s veranda,

she is
emblazoned essence
of poppies on aurora-sky,
ambiance and prosperity
blooming like hibiscuses
~footprints on marble-steps
of worship.

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Every Woman is a Flower

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every woman blooms
in the veldts of existence,
spreading her own
unique fragrance,
her typical smile radiant
on variegated face.

some are like
the redolent rose abloom
with scented sighs,
blossomed excuse of
satin softness amid
the sharp, prickly thorns,
the reason for dewdrops to
linger longer on
the satin soft cheeks
of vermilion dawn.

some are demure
as those tiny wildflowers,
speckling vagrancy
of the obscure weeds,
lost in haze of anonymity
but adding their breaths
to redolent potpourri
of versicolor spring~
beauty yet undiscovered.

some are golden daffodils
smiling in winter’s lukewarm morn,
too preoccupied by
narcissistic self love to
pay heed to beauties around,
or appreciate ethereal grace
of the others in life.

others are orchids,
of exotic taffeta and
exclusive tastes and scent,
unlike the commonplace daisies,
simpering with delight,
in trifling joys of existence.

some are lilies, pure and sublime
as virgin frost
or moonbeam-spun dreams
bejeweled in dewdrops of
modesty, humility and veracity,

and some are poppies
sultry in gowns of scarlet,
with allure in their smiles and
intoxication in their kiss,
leading the enamored
down the path of misfortune.

some smile as wisteria~
blooming kisses of twilight on
slender and frail vines,
entwining tendril-arms on
supporting trunks of strength,
always quailing and dependent
without stamina to
endure life’s myriad vagaries.

some are lovelorn sunflowers,
gay and blissful only
when basking in soft glow
of the beloved’s presence and
drooping in gloom
when separated from love.

some are hursinghars~
insomniac creatures of nocturne,
smiling as sweet evensongs
in the moonlit nights
and sung in homage
as dawn’s saffron-white aubade
their fragrance lingering
in nostrils of memories long after
they whither from
ephemeral stalks of life.

a few are frangipanis,
outwardly a serene white,
but with a firefly of passion aglow
within scented depths
of the introvert soul,

other are lotuses so pure
blooming in muddy ditches,
so unblemished
despite the filth they
blossom from.

one of them is an amaranth
not ethereally beautiful
and fragile as prettier flowers,
but with strength in her sinews,
grit in her stance,
facing hardships without
quailing and withering away…

Rendezvous with Solitude…

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ivy

standing alone in
the quietude as vines
of ivy entwine themselves
around your sinuous contours
like chords of passion
holding your soul in thrall
as they strum threnodies of
desire on taut strings
of overwhelming emotions,
your breath blends in
the breeze as nuances
of citrus dreams and
luscious strawberry kisses.with two pink roses
from the redolent meads,
fresh and dew-kissed,
eager to enhance
the raven beauty of
silken mane flowing down
as shiny cascade,
she savors sensual whispers
of the tangible solitude,
hummed and crooned
in mesmerizing rhythm as
she loses herself
in undulating straits of
loving reminiscences.

in this rendezvous
with her procellous thoughts,
in this alcove cohabited
by verdant creeping ivy
and a cool, soothing breeze,
you try to untangle the vines
of ivy and your thoughts,
to redefine your passion,
your longings and wants,
yearning for the sunshine
pouring from skies
shining a larkspur azure,
to thaw the ice freezing
her emotions of love,
so love could shine as sun
on begonia skies at dawn…

I am the enigma of monsoon…

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Metaphors pile up like burnt leaves,
on sidewalks of autumnal penury
as indulging in scrambled-egg thoughts–
I watch absentmindedly:
cornflower skies molt cloud-scales
in muffled, snowflake-whispers.

I am the whimsy of monsoon~
tickling the senses with humid scents
on a bland, wafer-crisp morn
of shivering December,
my eyes scanning the horizons,
draped in ambiguous mists,
for the clarity of August skies
laundered by tempest.

Raindrops croon dulcet lines,
to be lost within the silence of puddles,
I am soaked in the enigma
of variegated moods of nature
~ as I seek to interpret
the lexicon of a pilgrim breeze.

I pluck fragrant sighs from roses,
scattering them to perfume
moist blades of verdure–
while a faint redolence lingers on fingertips
as traces of hues afloat on water.

A snapped guitar string
is the memory of effervescent melodies,
~ a frozen promise
stagnant in the grasp of time.
I pour over parched landscapes,
thirsting for inspiration,
reviving threnodies once strummed
on guitar, in fluid sibilants–
to drench shores in lyrical tides
hurling and cavorting to scribe
verse of versatility…

Love Story of Butterfly and Rose

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the butterfly

of diaphanous wings,
her taffeta splashed in
variegated graffiti,
is queen of spring’s meads
as she fluttered 
on whimsical wings to
sojourn blooming bowers,
basking in honeyed sunshine
and flirting with moths
vagrantly singing eulogies
to the lilies and orchids.

for its brocaded wings
it paid the price of its chrysalis
its much cherished alcove,
and now on the petals
of myriad fragrant flowers
it is transiently cradled before
lured away by redolence
of some other bloom,
attracted by another color
and then one day it saw the rose
a crimson dream of fragrance
peppered in ruby dewdrops,
smiling shyly in sun’s tequila gaze,
and it fell in love with it.

together they shared 
whispered sweet nothings,
as butterfly sipped nectar of rose
and rose basked in dew
carried on tiny feet from elsewhere,
they romanced even
in the transient versicolor sighs
of ephemeral twilight,
and in the moonlight chianti
befriended by glowworms
while voyeur stars watched
the lovers made sweet love.

when a fair maiden plucked
the rose from its bough,
butterfly was forlorn and aghast,
it followed its beloved
wherever the lass went with
rose adorned in her braid,
just to be with its beloved
to breathe in its sweet perfume,
and till the day it withered away
dead before its time 
killed by whim of a woman
and thus ended brief love story 
of butterfly and crimson rose…

Adieu of Paper Roses

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miming sculpted delights of nature
satin lips and angels’ breath,
smiling in ribbon-tied bouquet
in variegated rapture,
colors never seen in real roses.

exquisitely fashioned with
fingers matching mind’s vision,
titivated with crepe, tissue and satin,
adorned in sparkles and beads,
with rich perfume for redolent breath
they smiled in radiant delight.

my last parting gift for you
who taught me to love flowers
‘never pluck a flower’ you said ,
‘flowers inspire and spread bliss,
as nature’s poetry sprinkling hues
in drab existence, adding fragrance
to smoke-choked air.’

roses replenish dried palettes of Iris
as he paints rainbows,
lending hues to brush of Eos and Hespera.

as I bid you a sad adieu
your casket strewn in fragrance,
to embark on a journey to the unknown
I remember your love for flowers,
so no fresh, dewy roses for you,
from weeping boughs,
but paper roses made to simulate
flowers you loved abloom
in verdant embrace.

paradoxically I bid farewell
to a gardener with paper roses…